To the Voices
by NovaMe
Summary: In the books, Hermione Granger was the courageous one, the orderly one, the perfectionist. Now … well she's practically the same. Except she has an older sister, me. And okay, that changed a couple things for the both of us. SI-OC.


**A/N: Hello all, NovaMe here! Welcome to my story,** **Thin Ice** **. It's been a long while since I've written anything on here but I'm excited to be back. I've come to notice that there are so many SI's and OC's that are the sibling of Harry, Draco, Sirius and Regulus, James, or so on, but I have yet to come across a Hermione's sibling story. So I wanted to test one out, see how it flies. It's been a while since I've written though, so sorry if it's terrible.**

 **Also, frankly, this is for my leisure, I'm a college student who has piled a lot on my plate this quarter, so of course this is not going to be perfect. But I'm also not going to be able to update often, so there's not much I can tell you there, lol, but I'll do my best to pump chapters out at least once a month. Maybe. HAHA okay but I hope you all still enjoy it!**

 **Disclaimer: Anything or anyone you recognize, I don't own it – J.K. Rowling does. The only one who belongs to me is Nemesis.**

 **Summary** **: In the books, Hermione Granger was the courageous one, the orderly one, the perfectionist. Now … well she's practically the same. Except she has a sister, me. And okay, that changed a couple things for the both of us. SI-OC**

* * *

You know, I had been absolutely terrified of dying.

I didn't like to imagine the black void that would happen after or lack of feeling stuff and so on. That shit was scary, I liked being alive, you know? I didn't have the worst of lives. I mean sure, there were plenty of bad experiences, broken bones, and a lot of crying on my part but I liked being alive. I liked seeing the light, being around people, laughing, and well, overall, just existing and I hoped that I wouldn't have to experience death any time soon.

But of course, it happened, because why else would I be talking all about this now, right?

I can't even say I died in an abnormal, dramatic, or traumatic way. I didn't die in a huge explosion or car crash, no hitman or shooting, I wasn't killed nor did I off myself either, no cancer was involved, no surgery gone wrong, none of that.

I died because I fell on a hiking trail and hit my head. Oh. Yeah.

What made me mad about the whole thing was that I don't even hike – my club president blackmailed me into going for the sake of attendance numbers. She promised that if I attended, she'd excuse the four absences I had for general meetings that were putting me in danger of going on probation.

With some prodding and whining, I went and then tripped and tumbled down a small snowy hill and cracked my head against an icy rock.

I shouldn't be getting angry about it as I tell you, but just recounting the whole thing makes me so annoyed. I was two months away from graduating from university, all the times I skipped general meetings was because I was writing papers, and to die on a damn hiking trail because I _tripped_ – you know what, I don't even want to talk about it.

…I'm so mad….

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah. I died.

And no matter how terrified I was of dying, I was still expecting the black void of nothingness to follow, or at least see my life flash before my eyes. Honestly, maybe even God or the Devil, whichever one was destined to deal with me in the afterlife – or whichever one lost rock-paper-scissors and had to pick me for their team.

But like all things I expected in life, it didn't happen.

Instead, I felt all levels of sore and experienced the oddest sensation of being pulled through a tunnel. Well if that tunnel was a regular straw and I was a piece of Boba (you know, the little balls at the bottom of tea, kind of like gummy candy – never mind, just never mind). The feeling was just uncomfortable, unnerving, and _definitely_ made me aware of nerves I never knew existed in my body.

And as quick as the feeling came, it disappeared. Replaced by sharp freezing pain all over my body, as though someone had dumped me in a frigid ocean, despite that something big and warm was holding me. Everything hurt so much, I was screaming, trying to beg for this pain to stop.

But words weren't being formed and no one was listening to me.

Instead, I vaguely heard "congratulations… a girl…."

I opened my eyes, trying to see what was going on but the world was terribly blurry, whether by my own tears or because I was actually blind, I don't know. For a second or two, everything was a white and blue blur up until I felt myself be handed off.

I was cradled by a pair of warm and loving warmth, and was soon staring up at a tired but expressive pair of blue eyes.

One moment, I was wondering why this lady was tired and huge. And in the next second came the sinking feeling.

I was a baby again.

They took my screaming in horror as sign of a healthy baby.

I used to wish that that was the end of the nightmare, but it wasn't. It was just the start of my new reality.

.

.

.

I was reborn on December 31st, 1978 as Nemesis Jane Granger.

….

Yeah, I thought the same thing.

And of all days to be born (of all years too, can't believe I went back in time).

From what my parents tell everyone who asks, they wanted to give me a smart name, one that only smart people would understand – Greek Goddess of Retribution, y'know – but I think they forgot that there are more stupid people in the world than there is smart people.

On my part, though, I was more bothered by the fact that I was not going to find my name on keychains or coke bottles yet again – honestly, Fate had it out for me.

But for a while, I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt as if I knew my name. Something about my name felt incredibly familiar but I just couldn't place it. It was such a nagging feeling that, in the end, I just gave up on trying.

It had taken me a while to get over the initial fear, confusion, and overwhelm. Fortunately for my new parents, it was only for a couple days – two days and seventeen hours – before I became too tired to be _too_ upset anymore.

In this time, I took to figuring out what was going on with this baby body of mine. Which was absolutely nothing, by the way. My eyes took forever to cooperate and open and I was working out the kinks with my muscles that weren't strong enough so I was left with jerky movements – I've punched my new father a couple times.

All on accident, I swear.

My new parents, I later found, were Edward and Denise Granger. And they were pretty charming people.

Edward Granger was a kind and funny man, a bit awkward like all first-time fathers I would imagine – if him trying to adjust me in his arms but honestly felt more like he was juggling me said anything about that. He had wavy caramel hair that he'd often muse in my first few days because I wouldn't stop screaming bloody murder, and warm chocolate eyes that crinkled when he smiled down at me or made faces.

Denise Granger was best described as warm, very loving and doting. She'd often hold me, singing to me and just staring happily at me – no matter how much it made me uncomfortable, I wouldn't take that away from her. She had curly chocolate hair that she'd often tickle my face with to make me react and bright blue eyes that changed shades with her moods.

I learned very early on that they were very patient people, meeting my screaming and constant panic with warm tolerance. Especially Denise when I refused to breast feed. That was quite the episode, I'll admit.

They raised me with utmost love and affection, which I am incredibly thankful for. There could've been so many other scenarios I could've been born to, I was fortunate enough for this one.

Even if peek-a-boo and ' _where's Mimi'_ got old as fast as avocados.

All in all, it was … comfortable. For lack of better terminology. Odd – because who dies and gets reborn – but comfortable, I was only expected to eat and sleep, and sometimes entertain the odd guest, like my new grandparents who had an affinity for pinching my cheeks.

As all things, my new life began to change after months passed. My baby muscles were getting stronger and I was finally able to move about – which Edward and Denise were thrilled about – but still not able to go about without supervision or lift anything that wasn't the weight of a toy, which was terrible in the sense that I was very bored. I was also making progress on the accepting-I-was-reborn front, it happened in stages. I became the quiet child by my first month – sulking and pouting for another, before just trying to be a regular baby for the sake of Edward and Denise. Well, as much of a regular baby I can be with an adult mind but you know, same thing – kind of.

But I wasn't the only one to change.

We soon found out that Denise was pregnant with yet another child, unexpected for both parents but they were absolutely thrilled for a new little bundle of joy.

Now you're probably wondering why this was such a big deal.

It changed absolutely everything.

Because six months after that – Hermione Jean Granger was born.

Yeah.

Hermione. Jean. Granger.

In that delivery room, a day after her birth, Dad thought I had instantly fallen asleep in his arms, but really, I fainted.

.

.

.

She had Edward's eyes, I always noticed when we stared at each other, like now.

It had been three months since little Hermione was born, and ten days before my first birthday in this life. Three very interesting and long months.

After my fainting episode when she was born, I didn't know what to do.

It just all went back to having been reborn. I hadn't asked to be reborn, maybe Death felt bad for how I died and gave me another chance, maybe Fate really hated me and thought it funny for me to go through puberty again. But it happened regardless of a reason that I do not understand. Accepting that, however, was easier than accepting the possibility of actually existing in the Harry Potter World.

I lived a lifetime – a short lifetime, but a lifetime nonetheless – where magic was nothing but a myth, a fantasy, a dream. Little kids would pretend to play dragons and knights, to be witches during Halloween, and books would spin tales of magic. That was all the magic I knew in that life apart from the world of Harry Potter – which … err … high school me was a bit of a hardcore fan.

And the possibility that I was in that world was just mindboggling.

Of course, this could totally be wrong and I'm in this parallel universe where magic actually doesn't exist and coincidentally Hermione Granger is my sister.

But if I'm not wrong, where does this put me?

I would be in the world of my favorite novels, a reprieve from the real world, pieces really close to my heart. Pieces I didn't want to change.

I'm positive that if anyone else was in my position, they would be eager to right the wrongs in the books – to help Potter, to save Cedric, to save Sirius, to fight in the war and make a difference, to save Remus and Tonks, to save Fred and Dobby, _to be the savior_. But I … I didn't want to. I was devastated for each of them, but I have long since made my peace with it. I was more than willing to let it just happen, while enjoying my time in this world – come on, it's the Harry Potter universe, like honestly who wouldn't?

Now, however, there was a problem.

Hermione.

Had Hermione not been my sister, I wouldn't have cared to try and change anything. To me, the novels had been perfect and no matter how many people I loved ended up dying, I would refuse to change anything.

Okay, except maybe Umbridge's death because if _anyone_ deserved a slow and painful death, it was that one.

But that's beside the point.

Hermione is my little sister. Hermione, who aligns herself with Harry Potter with strict loyalty and love for him as a brother, is my little sister. Hermione, who will go on dangerous adventures for new information and for the sake of Potter, is my little sister. Hermione, who is rule-abiding and a bit bossy, is my little sister. Do you see where I'm going with this?

She is my sister, and for me – whether it is my past life or my life now – family is one of the biggest values to me. In the past, I may not have been necessarily close to my family, but I would sooner put down my life for theirs. That has not changed, and it will not change.

I would refuse to let my sister get hurt. In my eyes, it was family before anyone else. And I would follow that.

But I also couldn't go and change the story.

So this left me in an awkward position.

I sighed.

Hermione gurgled at me, reaching over to pat my face.

I didn't want anything to happen to her, but I knew she would at least survive in the end. I could care for her and I would love her like no other. But I would be a minimal influence in her life, I would have to let things be or just be ready to catch her when she needs me.

I could not take up an active role. I would not. I should not.

I looked down into Hermione's chocolatey eyes, watching her chubby cheeks put up into a happy toothless smile.

I really should not.

Even if I didn't want my little sister to go through the things she will.

"Sssss," she lisped, giggling at me.

I smiled sadly at her.

But I would give her everything else I could.

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